Rare Edition
by cardiffictionlocked1895
Summary: He used to like power plays. That was before they became more than just a distraction. AU lead-up to The Reichenbach Fall. Lots of Sherlene/Adlock fluff, though that's only part of the storyline. Unfortunately I don't own any recognizable characters.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Bree and I are both working on this fanfic, so some chapters will be by her and some will be written by me. -JC**

Chapter 1- John

"Sherlock!" I called, bringing the groceries inside. "I bought food!" I walked into the living room where he usually sat while I was gone.

And froze.

He wasn't there. I checked his room, the kitchen, everywhere. He was gone. Then I noticed a letter that hadn't been on the counter when I'd left to go shopping. It was addressed to me. There was a scrap of paper inside it, and written on that paper was a single sentence.

_-He's not the only showoff now._

This had to be some kind of sick joke. Sherlock couldn't get… kidnapped, could he? That wasn't possible. I stared at the note. It seemed genuine, and Sherlock wasn't one to play pranks. It had to be real.

I dialed Mycroft's number.

"Hello, John." He sounded completely uninterested, as always.

"Have you seen Sherlock today?"

"No. Why? Haven't you? I mean, you live with him."

"No, actually. I think… Mycroft, I think he's been abducted."

"_What_?"

"He's not here. I haven't seen him since this morning, and I found this letter…"

"Mind if I drop by?"

"Not at all." Then he hung up.

I paced the room. How had the kidnapper, whoever he was, taken Sherlock, and, more importantly, where? I sat down and tried to think clearly- I could probably rule out all the big cities in England, because they'd have too many witnesses. The problem was that there were so many smaller cities and I couldn't search them all.

Suddenly I remembered the letter. I ran back into Sherlock's room to get it, and looked at the return address on the envelope. I didn't recognize the city name, so it was very likely a small one. It seemed too easy; why abduct Sherlock only to lead me right to him?

Before I could think of an answer to that puzzling question, I heard a knock at the door. "Come in!" I yelled.

Mycroft entered, shutting the door behind him. "Show me the letter."

I passed it to him. He looked at it for a long moment. "Sounds like whoever wrote this wants to impress us."

I nodded. "This could be Moriaty, but I wouldn't count on it. It could be anyone. Sherlock doesn't exactly have a shortage of enemies."

"Any ideas for where they took him?" he asked.

I showed him the envelope.

"Let's go."

-Bree


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I wrote this next chapter. Enjoy -JC_

Chapter 2- Sherlock

It started out your run-of-the-mill kidnapping- you know, lots of men with guns and black clothes, the note left behind to freak people, specifically John, out- the like. I couldn't get a good look at the two men as they dragged me across the room. That was thing that irked me the most- the feeling of knowing next to nothing about them, except of course that one of them was doing this for money to save his dying daughter (classic) and the other one needed the cash to bail his mate out of prison. But those facts were obvious, surface observations. I believe I was drugged sometime during it, since I don't remember going the stairs of our flat. Mrs. Hudson had been gone on some errand or another. I wasn't quite sure just how long it had been since John left for the store when the men came. So there was no one in the building when they arrived to collect me. I'd love to know how their timing was so perfect, but the answer evades me still.

When I opened my eyes again, the same men were on either side of me, holding my arms in a death grip. We were standing in a dirty, disused shed, its roof sagging- by the looks of it, it hadn't been occupied in at least a month.

"Sherlock Holmes." A third man appeared in the doorway of the shack. His suit was made to look expensive, though it was blaringly clear how cheap it was. The fraying around the sleeves showed that he'd either gotten it used or had it for a while- I'd said used, judging from his unshaven face, tired eyes, and balding head, though he couldn't have been more than thirty. This man had to work overly hard for his living. His teeth were only beginning to develop nicotine stains, so he hadn't had access to cigarettes for very long. He was holding a brand new mobile phone, no doubt a gift, but I could the moisture marks on it- his palms were sweating. His expression was cool, but I could see the nervousness under the mask. One of my abductors reached out a hand toward him, expecting payment, and the man in the suit cringed back- abusive parent; an alcoholic father, I was guessing. I could practically smell the stark soberness of him. After a moment he straightened, smiling thinly to cover his embarrassment, and passed each of the men a handful of pounds. The man was hiding something as well- something serious, something he could be convicted for- a murder. All of this went through my head in about seven seconds. Had it not been so dark I would have observed a good bit more. The lack of light was rather disappointing.

"My memory is fine; I am well aware what my name is." Not even close to my usual standards in cleverness, but being kidnapped had shaken me up just a bit, just enough that I was more distracted than I should have been.

The third man coughed. "No need to waste time doing your little trick on me, Holmes. You won't be seeing me after this. I am merely a messenger- my boss would prefer to leave his identity to the imagination. Though for the way you're staring me down, I have absolutely no idea why he would be so reluctant to deal you personally." His voice was dripping with sarcastic poison.

"I wasn't expecting humor from a man like you. You're dying to get out of here, aren't you? The instant he pays you you'll be gone. You despise me. In fact, the way I'm looking at you right now reminds you of the way your late father would." He flinched. Clearly retaliation from me, especially about his father, was the one thing he hadn't seen coming. "Your father's a touchy subject. Did you kill him? Seems like something a son, desperate to get away, would have done in flight of passion-"

"Enough." He was visibly sweating, not even bothering to fake impassiveness anymore, glaring at me. "Just in case you're wondering why you're here…" The man pulled a photograph out of his coat pocket. "You wouldn't have to recognize her, would you?"

The abductor for hire my right released my arm, letting my take the picture from him. Horror burned like acid in my chest, but I kept a straight face. "Not in the slightest."

The man in the suit cursed, ripping the photograph out of my hands. "Well, that's it then." He gestured toward the door when a glance at my handlers. "Dispose of him."

_"Wait."_ The voice sounded from somewhere further inside the shack. From the sound of it, its owner was enjoying our discussion. So this must be the said boss. _"This one may prove to be useful yet. I've became a bit fond of him. Send him off, but let him live- for now."_

The third man paled. "You heard him." He looked at the two who kidnapped me again.

My handlers needed no further instruction. They tossed me out into the coming drizzle, my head slamming against a rock. Things began to shift in and out of focus, and one threw a small dagger at my chest casually. It stuck there, and I yanked it out, watching the blood well up from the wound as everything faded into oblivion. All I could think of was the woman in the photo.

Irene Adler.

My dreams were complete nonsense. Irene was looking down me, stroking my cheek and smirking. "What a pretty face. Such a shame…" Then she morphed into Molly, who shouted at me for about fifteen minutes before she, in turn, became John. He was talking, but I couldn't hear a word he said for the life of me.

"John…"

Abruptly he turned into my brother. Mycroft was also leaning over me in an unfamiliar car. "Hush, Sherlock." I think I muttered a few more things, but I can't remember what. Then something that felt suspiciously like a fist slammed into my temple.

And I slept.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: And now we're back to Bree for next few chapters -JC_

Chapter 3- John

"Where to?" the cabbie asked me as Mycroft and I climbed into the back of his car.

I told him to take us to the edge of the town on the letter's return address. It was a long, uncomfortably quiet drive; the tension in the air was almost palpable. I stared out the window. The buildings and people thinned as we left the busy city, and soon only a few houses dotted the landscape. Drops of water started falling from the sky, obscuring my view. I turned away from the window. Mycroft was silent beside me. He was taking this surprisingly well- after all, Sherlock was his brother. Then again, they had never been close. I wondered if I should make conversation, but I couldn't think of anything good to say, so the noiseless journey continued.

After about an hour, the car stopped just outside of a tiny country town. "You sure this is where you want to get off?"

"We're sure." But as soon as I said it, I faltered. Just because the letter was sent from here, that didn't mean Sherlock was here. He could be anywhere. Nevertheless, we had to try this place. It was the only lead we had. Steeling myself for what I might find, I stepped out of the cab and into the rain. Mycroft followed.

I waited for the cabbie to drive off before I spoke. "Well, then, what now?"

Mycroft strode forward through the rainfall. "We're going to find Sherlock."

"Obviously, but you can't just expect to walk into town and-" I cut myself short, noticing a dark shape on the ground next to an abandoned truck alongside the road. "What's that over there?" I pointed it out to Mycroft.

He squinted through the downpour. "I can't tell."

Walking around the side of the truck, I saw what, or rather _who_ it was.

Sherlock lay motionless on the wet grass, blood seeping through his coat, his eyes closed. I cursed, and we both ran to him.

I pressed my finger to his wrist. "He's alive."

Mycroft pulled open Sherlock's coat, exposing his bloody shirt, and then unbuttoning that, too. "He got stabbed, though. It's not too deep."

I noticed a streak of blood trailing from a cut by Sherlock's temple. "Looks like he got hit on the head pretty hard as well." I noted, mentally adding a minor concussion to my thankfully short list of Sherlock's injuries.

"Let's get out of this rain." Mycroft prompted.

I put a hand over my eyes, trying to see through the storm. "We need to find a cab first. We should have told the last one to wait for us."

"We don't need a cab. There wouldn't be many around here, anyway." Mycroft told me. "We can use this truck." He gestured to the deserted vehicle, which suspiciously still had the keys in the ignition.

I held up my hands. "If it's rigged and it blows up when we get inside it, it's on your shoulders."

"Alright." Mycroft leaned down to pick up his unconscious brother.

Bracing myself for a hypothetical booby trap, I cautiously climbed into the driver's seat. Taking a deep breath, I turned the key to start the engine.

Nothing.

Just as I was letting out a sigh of relief, I realized that not only had there been no bombs, but the engine also hadn't started either. I twisted the key again. The truck remained motionless.

Behind me I heard the back door slam. Mycroft must have put Sherlock in the backseat. Seconds later Mycroft opened the passenger side door and sat next to me. "Find any explosives?"

I shook my head. "Worse. This blasted truck won't start." I tried the engine again to demonstrate. It sputtered once more, than died.

"We'll need to jumpstart it." Mycroft observed.

"That would be a _great_ idea, if we weren't out in the middle of nowhere." I grumbled.

"We aren't out in the middle of nowhere. My mum lives someplace around here."

"John…" Sherlock groaned.

"Hush, Sherlock." Mycroft told him.

"Thank you for sharing that useful information about your mother, but either way, we don't even have the cables to jumpstart this thing." I went on.

"Point taken."

"John, my head hurts. I don't know if my brain will ever be the same again." Sherlock complained.

"Shut _up_, Sherlock!" I shouted behind me. _Definitely a concussion._ I thought.

"I knew we should have taken a cab." Mycroft muttered.

"Now you tell me."

"I need a cigarette." Sherlock's moan carried over the seat.

"You need a lot more than a cigarette." Mycroft said, cuffing his little brother on the side of his head- hard. Sherlock dropped back onto the seat like a stone, out cold.

"Are you sure that was necessary?" I asked. "You certainly didn't help his concussion."

Mycroft shrugged. "He'll forgive me. Anyway, how else did you plan to get him to be quiet?"

I sighed. "Fine, then. But what are we going to do about the engine?"

Someone rapped on Mycroft's window from outside the car. I couldn't tell who it was because the rain had fogged up the glass.

"The kidnapper found us! I knew this was all too good to be true!" I dove to the floor under the steering wheel.

I heard the door open and a woman's voice say, "What are you doing out here?" She didn't sound like she could be a kidnapper.

"John, you can come out now." Mycroft said, laughing. "I'd like you to meet my mother."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4- John

I sat in Sherlock's mother's living room, drinking tea. It was a situation I'd never thought I'd be in, but, as with most things that had to do with Sherlock, it didn't surprise me too much that I was actually here.

Mycroft was sitting in a chair next to mine, occasionally sighing loudly, and, across the room, Sherlock lay still unconscious on the couch as his mother tended to his wounds. She was thin and looked a lot like Sherlock, determined expression and all. I had offered to help her with Sherlock's injuries, but she'd waved me off, saying she was a nurse and she could handle it. Honestly, though, I figured she just wanted to be near him. Sherlock wasn't exactly the visiting type, and her husband was never brought up in conversation nor did I see him, so I suspected she was probably lonely most of the time, out here in this pathetically tiny city.

While she worked, Mycroft explained what had happened up until she'd found us in the truck. She listened silently, and when he was done talking, she simply said, "I see," and continued carefully bandaging Sherlock's chest. After that, she stitched up the cut on his head, and, when she was finished, she sat back and stroked Sherlock's wet curls without a word. I knew Sherlock enough to know that he would hate that particular gesture, but she was his mother, so she could do that, I guessed.

Finally she began talking. "This doesn't come as too much of a shock to me. He always did have a lot of enemies." She turned to me. "Dr. Watson, you're his colleague, right?" I nodded. "Do you know anyone who hates him out in London?"

"A lot of people." replied Sherlock, who I don't think any of us had realized was awake. He opened his eyes. "Who punched me?"

"Surprisingly enough, it wasn't me this time." I told him, and his mum raised an eyebrow.

"I would say I'm sorry, but, Sherlock, I'm really not." Mycroft admitted.

Sherlock's mother looked down at her younger son. "How are you feeling?"

"Aside from a headache, I'm fine." Sherlock winced as he sat up. "Anyway, I don't know who abducted me, if that's what you all were discussing. I only heard his voice." Disappointment flared up in me, but Sherlock went on: "He paid men to kidnap me. One of them showed me a picture and asked me if I recognized the woman in it. Of course, I said I didn't and they believed me completely. I did actually recognize her, though; it a photo of Irene."

Mycroft groaned. "John, you told him that she moved to America, didn't you?"

"Ok, fine, I'll tell him now. Sherlock, Irene's dead, she-"

"Got killed by a terrorist organization." Sherlock finished for me. "No, she didn't. She faked her own death twice. I would know; I was there the second time."

"What? You were _there_? How is that possible?"

"Sorry to interrupt you boys," Sherlock's mother cut in, "but who on earth is Irene and why would she fake dying twice?"

"Aileen-" Sherlock started.

"I'm your mum, don't call me by my first name." she corrected him.

"_Mum._ Irene had an… interesting and specific occupation, and a lot of people were after her. However, she acquired a lot of compromising information and pictures on her camera phone. She called it her 'protection.' She gave it to me for safekeeping, and then played dead to throw off some of the killers that were onto her. Eventually, she came back for the camera phone, but I figured out the password to it and avoided a great bit of inconvenience for everyone involved." Sherlock summed up.

"Don't take all the credit. You always do." Mycroft said. "You're not even saying everything. On the same night, you disrupted government plans for-" Seeing the confused look on both my and Aileen's faces, he stopped. "Never mind."

Sherlock ignored him. "Afterward, I helped her cheat death again, and that's the last I've heard of her, until now."

"So some terrorist organization kidnapped you to ask if you know Irene?" I wondered out loud.

"Not exactly. That might have been part of the reason, but there has to be more to it." For someone talking about his own abduction, Sherlock was surprisingly calm. Then again, this was Sherlock. I probably shouldn't expect any different. "The man in charge said something about me turning out to be useful in the future."

"And then they left you out in the rain so you could tell everyone you'd likely be kidnapped again?" Mycroft asked, skeptical.

"They couldn't have guessed you two would find me. Let me think for a minute." He pressed his palms together under his chin and started staring blankly at the wall.

Aileen checked her watch. "It's getting rather late, so if you all don't mind I'm going to bed. Dr. Watson, Mycroft will show you to the guest room. Sherlock, you stay on the sofa, and Mycroft can sleep on an air mattress."

"Thank you." I answered her. Mycroft just nodded. Neither of us made any move to get up.

"Fine." Sherlock replied absentmindedly.

Aileen gave Sherlock one last meaningful look, and headed to the stairs.

We sat in impatient silence for a few minutes after she left, but soon that enlightened expression I knew so well formed on Sherlock's face. He looked at me. "John, they must have known you'd come after me. I saw them leave a letter. Tell me, what was strange about it?"

"Um, well, I found it on the table, but it was postmarked and had a return address." I was lost, as usual, as to where he was going with this.

"I thought that might be the case. How else would you have found me so quickly? They wanted you to figure out where I was. They're very likely tracking me. He must have planted a chip on me somewhere." Sherlock started searching, checking his arms and pulling up the legs on his pants.

"I didn't notice anything." Mycroft told him, but Sherlock had already found what he was looking for.

"Here it is." He pointed at a spot on the side of his arm just below his shoulder. Right under the skin, barely visible, protruded a tiny square about the size of a dime.

"Do I even want to know how they got it there?" I inquired, feeling slightly sickened.

"Probably not. I don't know myself. They drugged me for a time." Carefully he touched the object in question, pressing down gently with his finger. He then looked back at me. "John, I can't do it myself, so I'll need you to get it out. It's small and at the surface, and it should come out fairly easily."

"Wait, you want to take it out? Here? We don't even have the proper medical tools or anything. "

"Of course I want to take it out. We can't just leave it there." I had to admit, he had a point. It would be tempting fate to do nothing about it. "Besides, all you really need to do it is a good knife, which I'm sure won't be too hard to find." He glanced pointedly at Mycroft, who sighed before getting up and leaving for the kitchen.

A minute later he returned with several other items in addition to a small, shining blade. "Unless you were planning on bleeding to death, Sherlock, you might want to reconsider needing only the knife." He gestured to a spool of thread and a needle that he'd thought to grab.

"Thanks, Mycroft." I said because I knew Sherlock wouldn't. I pulled up a chair next to Sherlock's couch as Mycroft set everything out on a side table.

"This is going to hurt." I reminded Sherlock as I used an alcohol swab Mycroft had also brought to numb the skin around the odd device.

"The faster we get rid of the chip, the better." He responded simply, and I pushed the knife gently into his arm, digging in slightly.

He swore lightly, but to his credit he didn't even flinch as I carefully widened the cut, keeping my hand steady. Gripping a pair of tweezers, I slowly tugged out the metal square, relieved as it came out smoothly. Sherlock let out a little gasp of pain.

"Got it." I dropped it on the table. Blood began welling up in the wound, and I pressed a towel to Sherlock's arm. "Mycroft, can you sanitize the needle and thread it?"

He did so, and handed it to me. I moved back the towel and inserted the needle. Sherlock clenched his jaw as I stitched the edges of his skin back together.

Finally I was done. I wiped my hands off on the towel. "It's finished. You got lucky. There wasn't too much bleeding."

Sherlock just nodded. "Show me the chip."

I handed the blood-soaked object to him. He studied it for a moment. It was plain black with rounded corners and a flat surface. In the center of one side, a tiny green light blinked.

"I was right." He breathed. "They are tracking me. Mycroft, take the car and drive for about fifteen minutes. Leave the chip somewhere it won't get destroyed; they can't know we found it. As of right now, we are one step ahead of them."

Mycroft tentatively took the chip from his brother. Clearly he wasn't feeling Sherlock's eagerness. "I don't see why we can't just go outside and throw it."

"Don't be stupid; that won't be enough. It has to get as far away from here as possi-"

Suddenly there was a pounding on the door. We all looked at each other, debating whether or not to answer it.

The question was decided for us as the door was flung open. A tall man stepped in.

"Sh*t." I whispered. Even in the semi-darkness I could see the look of recognition flash quickly across Sherlock's face. I vaguely heard Mycroft mutter under his breath to his brother, "Mum is going to kill you."

The kidnappers had found us.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5- Sherlock

As I suspected, the first man wasn't alone. Following him were two other tough-looking men, both holding guns. I could tell only some of their muscle was from actual working out, but most of it was from steroids. The guns held only tranquilizers, not real bullets, and one man was tentative to shoot, preferring to rely solely on brute strength. The other carried his gun oddly, like he didn't know how to use it quite right. The weapons had been an afterthought, most likely as a scare tactic.

The first man stepped forward, shutting the door and locking it. He was slim and unarmed, his suit clean and stiff. Even though I often fought while wearing a suit, I was sure this man wouldn't touch any of us. He would do the talking, and the other two would carry out the dirty work. He nodded at his companions, and they rushed forward, one grabbing John's shoulder in a tight grip that suggested immediate violence if he moved. The other man seized Mycroft's arms behind his back. Luckily, Mycroft remained impassive and John was calm, even as guns were pressed to their necks.

The thin man smiled at me. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes." He addressed me with a nasal, unpleasant voice. "As you can see, my friends won't hesitate to shoot if you don't cooperate. You're to come with me." He glanced down at the side table.

I smirked, still lounging contentedly on the sofa. "Moriaty must have a busy schedule if he wasn't able to be here himself, or even send his usual snipers." I commented, ignoring all the threats.

All three kidnappers looked at each other in confusion. Clearly they hadn't guessed that I'd know about their boss.

"Shame he couldn't make it. He might have liked to witness this." I leapt to my feet, giving no thought to my recent injuries, and pulled my gun from under the couch cushion. Judging by the looks on John and Mycroft's faces, they hadn't a clue about my firearm beforehand. Clicking off the safety, I pointed it at the speaker's forehead. "You really didn't anticipate that I'd just give in, did you? Moriaty's already pulled this stunt-" I stopped, several pieces coming together in my mind. I smiled suddenly at my rival's genius. "Ah, yes. Moriaty's smart. You don't even know who I'm talking about, do you?"

The head abductor pretended not to hear me, his eyes on the potentially deadly object in my hand. "You can shoot me, but that won't stop your friend and brother from being killed. Drop your weapon, Mr. Holmes."

In answer, I cocked my gun. "Don't presume to lie to me. Those guns aren't even loaded. They're just tranquilizers."

The man sighed. "We were told to bring you in alive. Don't want a stray bullet jeopardizing everything, do we?"

I laughed. "And you call yourselves professionals." I readjusted my aim slightly, and shot the man in the shoulder. He cried out, clutching his wound, and collapsed to the ground. He'd probably live, as I had just wanted to get him out of the way. He really was no danger to me, and I didn't kill for the sport of it.

I'd half-expected the other men to tranquilize John and Mycroft point-blank, but instead they just stared at their fallen leader. Obviously they'd assumed he'd tell them when to shoot, but, as he wasn't about to give them any instructions, they stood there dumbly.

I took advantage of the opportunity and, in seconds, I had crossed the room over to the one holding John. He put up his hands, letting go of John, who quickly side-stepped away. Still holding the gun, I kicked the back of his knees. He fell, but grabbed onto my arm so I went down with him. He punched at me, but I easily avoided his fists, as he was slow. I elbowed him in the nose and he lost his grip on my arm. Standing up, I took his tranquilizer and shot him a few times with it.

The other one tried unsuccessfully to sneak up behind me, having left Mycroft behind. I flipped my gun around and slammed the butt of it into his head. He was out before he hit the floor. Leaving him, I hauled the leader out the door and unceremoniously flung him outside, and then reclaimed my position on the couch. "You two go ditch them somewhere. Take the chip and leave it with them. I'll stay here."

"Hold on." John dropped the man he had started dragging. "What are you planning on doing, then?"

"Keeping up appearances." I was sure my mother would come to check on me sometime soon, and, to be honest, I shouldn't have fought like that while I was still recovering. Now that the action was over, I was feeling faintly light-headed.

John nodded at my answer. "Alright. We'll be back in a bit." He headed toward the door, pulling one of the men along, and Mycroft, sighing, followed him with another. I heard them start the car and load the men into it, driving away.

As I'd predicted, my mum came downstairs shortly after they'd left. I feigned sleep, but when I felt her touch my hair, pushing it back from my face, I pretended like she'd woken me up.

"Oh, sorry." She whispered, stepping back. "I thought you were asleep. Where's Mycroft, by the way?" She'd noticed the absence of both my brother and the air mattress he was supposed to be sleeping on.

"Oh, he just went to get it. We were all talking down here for a while." I lied. At least, it was mostly a lie. I was glad that I'd remembered to clear off the side table earlier. Nothing like a blood-soaked knife to bring up questions.

"Oh, alright then. Goodnight, Sherlock." I closed my eyes, and listened to the sound of her footsteps walking away and back up the stairs.

Almost instantly after she was out of ear shot, I heard John and Mycroft reenter. I had meant to get up again, but I was incredibly exhausted from the events of the day. Without another word, I sank gratefully in unconsciousness.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6- John

The next day, I woke up early for some reason. I couldn't imagine why until I recognized the strong smell of bacon and eggs being cooked. Aileen must have made breakfast. Yawning, I slid out of bed and walked into the kitchen, surprised to find that I was the only one awake besides Sherlock's mother. She showed me to the table and I started eating.

Sherlock, stretching, come over and sat down across from me, distastefully eyeing the food on the plate his mother had at his place.

I noticed his apparent lack of appetite. "You're not planning on eating today, are you?" I asked when his mother went back into the kitchen.

He shook his head. "There's too much to think about. I don't have time, and, anyway, I'm not hungry." He started to push his plate away, but I stopped him.

"Sherlock, I don't care if you think it's just 'transport,' you need to eat. You can't starve yourself." I commanded.

He flashed me an extremely irritated expression, but wordlessly obeyed, picking at his meal. "I realized something last night. Moriaty didn't send those men to kidnap me."

"And what makes you think that?" Mycroft sauntered over to the table, looking exactly the same as he had the night before, his suit clean and perfect. The comparison between him and his younger brother was almost laughable, with Sherlock's disheveled hair and rumpled clothes.

Sherlock glanced at him. "I _know_ that. Didn't you see how confused those men were when I mentioned Moriaty? Even if they had known who I was talking about, he couldn't have been behind it. It was all too amateur of a plan, and far too easy to resist. Moriaty wouldn't back such a messy job. I do suspect, though, that he was watching to see if they could actually end up kidnapping me. If they had, he would have simply taken me off their hands." Sherlock took a bite of eggs.

I nodded, everything coming together in my mind, but he wasn't finished.

"The tracking chip must have been his idea, however. They asked for his advice, and he gave it, along with the chip. The kidnappers' boss had to have been in on it. He had his men take me and plant the chip, then leave me somewhere Moriaty could pick me up; that must have been what the boss meant when he said I would be useful, as I'm sure Moriaty would give him a large sum for my capture. What they weren't expecting was for you two to find me. The boss sent more people after me. They failed, obviously, so I'm not sure what they'll do next. Likely Moriaty will try to get me himself." Sherlock explained calmly.

"You think you'll get kidnapped _again_?" I inquired, feeling rather unprepared for what Sherlock was suggesting.

"I doubt I actually will. I just think he won't give up so quickly." His mother entered then, and Sherlock casually changed the subject. "Mum, I think we'll leave soon. We all have our work to get back to, and I'll be fine now."

He didn't tell her anything about the attempted follow-up kidnapping or the unconventional tracking chip removal, so I didn't bring up the incidents either. I wondered how many of these life-threatening episodes Sherlock had kept from his mother. Or from me, I thought with some horror.

"Yes, I really must get back to my job." Mycroft chimed in. "It's bad enough I missed yesterday."

Aileen seemed crestfallen. She must have hoped that her sons would stay longer. "Alright. I'll take you back to London because clearly none of you have a working vehicle."

Seeing the confused look on Sherlock's face, I realized that he probably wouldn't remember the truck. "We took a cab here. That truck wasn't ours. We just wanted a faster way back then having to wait for another cab." I spoke to Aileen, but the explanation was mostly for Sherlock's benefit.

"Then I'll find you a cab. It's a shame you can't stay." Aileen brushed Sherlock's hair off his temple, where the wound that she'd bandaged was.

He batted her away, and got up from the table. "I'm ready to leave whenever you are." He looked at me, smoothing out his suit carefully. He was seemingly unaware of how cold he was being.

"Thanks for letting all of us spend the night here, Ms. Holmes." I told Aileen.

"Thank you, Mum." Mycroft shot a glance at his brother, who was obliviously putting on his shoes.

Sherlock straightened up, and sighed lightly. "Thank you." he added.

She just nodded. "I'll just be a moment. There's usually a cab that comes around here about this time." She stepped outside and reappeared a few minutes later. "The cab's waiting."

Sherlock, Mycroft, and I quickly left the house, having nothing to pack, and piled into the car, Mycroft in the front and Sherlock and I in the backseat. We said goodbye to Aileen, who watched us leave until we were too far away to be seen.

"You know, Sherlock," I turned to my friend, "you could have been a little nicer. She _is_ your mother, after all."

Sherlock stared out the window. "We were never that close, and after I moved out I didn't see her much. She missed me, but you of all people should know that I don't have the time to visit. She didn't understand, and we grew even farther apart. End of story."

"I still think she misses you." I hinted, because she so obviously did miss him.

"I'm not obligated to see her frequently. I'm not a child anymore." He snapped.

_Well, at least physically you aren't_, I wanted to say, thinking of how immature Sherlock could be, like when he'd shown up wearing only a sheet at the Buckingham Palace. I didn't mention his juvenile tendencies to him, though. He wouldn't appreciate it.

Not sure what else to say we lapsed into silence, the drive lasting longer then I remembered. Near the end of the drive, the cabbie dropped Mycroft off at his office, where he said he needed to get some work done. I wanted to ask Sherlock more about the case, but he had gone into his thinking position toward the beginning of the car ride and didn't move from it until we finally reached the flat. I paid the cabbie and we got out. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson was away for the week, off visiting some relatives, so we didn't have to explain our recent incident to her.

When we got upstairs, Sherlock told me that he was going to play his violin and I went up to my room to get changed. Checking my phone, I discovered that I had a text from Mycroft. It read:

_I contacted Irene Adler and told her everything. She's coming to Baker Street in half an hour. She might help clear a few things up about why the kidnappers asked Sherlock about her._

_MH_

I leaned back against the wall and sighed, remembering the first time Sherlock and I had seen Irene here, and how we'd found her sleeping in his bed. I thought of how she'd manipulated Sherlock into exposing government tactics that night. I hoped that today would be different.

I couldn't have been more right.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Okay, so the next four or so chapters are going to mine. Sorry about the whole switching back and forth thing Bree and I are doing -JC_

_I'll make you whisper my name_

_And never leave the room_

_Night and day_

_I'll be your muse_

_No other girl can make you feel the way I do_

_-Selena Gomez, _Stars Dance

Irene

He was playing his violin when I came in. He didn't notice me at first- his back was to me, and he was clearly absorbed in his music. It was a soft, lonely sound, and I suddenly remembered John saying "He's writing sad music…" I tried to ignore the fact he was wearing that impossibly sexy purple shirt. It was just tiniest bit too small for him, straining a little over his impressive build. _Don't think about it, don't think about it…_

"Miss me?"

I could tell I had startled him. He broke off abruptly, setting down the violin and turning around to face me slowly.

"Remind me what exactly I'm supposed to miss about you."

I took a couple steps toward him, and he stepped back, playing along. Without any warning, I slapped him across the face. He just stared at me, speechless for once. "I have waited so long to do that."

A sudden longing hit me out of nowhere. It was so sharp, so simple, so random, so unbelievably idiotic, but, for the first time in my life, I didn't think before I acted on it. I pulled Sherlock toward me, and pressed his lips against mine in one quick, fluid movement. He was right. He had always been right. I had enjoyed manipulating his emotions far too much. It made me vulnerable, and here I was, handing him my heart, utterly unprotected, on a silver platter. Stupid, I knew- but he didn't even seem to be aware just how exposed I was. He kissed me back, his arms wrapped me, and I realized that this must have been the first time Sherlock Holmes had ever kissed someone. He was, surprisingly, not all that bad at it. My hands were whited-knuckled as I clutched his shirt, afraid it was going to be over all too soon.

He bumped into the wall at the same moment my foot caught on the leg of a chair. We crashed out the floor, both of us jumping up immediately and dusting ourselves off sheepishly. But I should have known it would be too late. John was standing at the top of the stairs leading up to his bedroom, open-mouthed.

"I'm only going to ask this once." He paused. "Sherlock, why the _he**_ is there lipstick on your face?!"

Sherlock reached up and very calmly wiped the smear of my blood-red lipstick off his upper lip. "We tripped, and she fell into me."

"Yes, of course, why didn't I think of that? And I bet her lips so helpfully hit yours on the way down. Likely story. What could you possibly have tripped over, anyway? _Each other_?"

"The chair leg, actually."

I guess it figures that Mycroft chose that exact moment to walk through the flat entryway. John I could deal with, but Mycroft…

His eyes slowly took in the mussed-up state of Sherlock's hair; the wrinkles on the front of his shirt he hadn't yet had a chance to smooth out; my not-so-perfect make up; the angle of which we were standing, both slightly turned toward the other; the tense atmosphere.

Finally Mycroft spoke. "Well this…this is interesting." He was obviously aware he had our full attention. Oh, how I hated being out of my depth. "And here I was thinking my brother didn't care about anything at all." His laughter was hard. He had already began to open his mouth again, no doubt to insult us, when it happened.

A spray of bullets came from almost every direction, shattering the window panes and ripping through the walls. John cursed with great variety. All four of us drove to the floor nearly simultaneously, but before a jolt of pain shot through my hip. My right arm twisted under me, breaking my fall, and I heard something crack. Between swiftly closing eyelids I could make out dark liquid seeping from Sherlock's sleeve as he muttered, "Not again." Darkness danced around the fringe of my vision, taunting me.

The crunch of glass startled me back to my senses. My eyes were closed, but I felt someone touched my wound. This was followed by the recognizable sound of a spray paint can being shook and then applied. A minute later, fingers pried open my eye- checking to see if I was still alive? A man in black squatted next to me, and behind him I could see the words "Holy water cannot help you now" spelled out in red paint on the wall. The man, his face blurry, put his index finger to his lips and let go of my eyelid.

And the darkness eclipsed everything else.

000

"And you're sure this wasn't Moriarty?"

"Do you really think I'd tell you that I wasn't sure? This wasn't his style. If he wanted to kill me, I'm certain he would do it differently, with more of an audience. Higher stakes as well. I'm a distraction to him, and if he was going to plot my demise, he'd make it memorable." Sherlock's voice drew me a little farther back into the world of the living. I was pretty sure John was the other speaker.

I could feel Sherlock's gaze trained on me. John read his mind. "You're wondering when she'll be awake, aren't you?"

"No, I'm wondering what the words on the wall meant. They must have known somehow that I was connected to Irene after all, and that I went to her house disguised as a priest-"

Annoyance crept into John's tone. "Who is 'they' again?"

I could imagine to the look on Sherlock's face as he answered, having not even explored the possibility that John hadn't followed his train of thought. "The men who abducted me, obviously."

Someone flicked on a light, and with the burst of brightness that pierced through my eyelids came a blaze of white hot pain. I sat up faster than I probably should have, realizing with much horror and disgust that I was wearing that piece-of-crap hospital gown made of paper they also give you. I slid onto the cold floor, not even wincing as the icy tiles hit my bare feet, and ripped off the gown shamelessly. I looked over at the two men, both of them too shocked to form full sentences. "Well?" I glared at Sherlock. "You've seen me naked before, or don't you remember? Give me your shirt already!" I stretched out my arm toward him. He sighed, peeling off his jacket and draping it over the chair. He pulled his shirt off and handed it to me, looking only slightly uncomfortable sitting there bare-chested. But this was the man who had gone willingly to Buckingham Palace wearing only a sheet. I bottomed up the shirt, smirking with deep satisfaction.

Sherlock leaned back abruptly, groaning. "Go get me some more morphine, John."

"You don't need any more morphine. Trust me on this one, Sherlock. You get shot _in the arm_. You're fine." John glanced at me. "She got shot in the bloody hip and all she wanted was your shirt."

I finally spared a look at my surroundings. We were at a hospital, in a private room by the looks of the setup. A little ways away, I could see Mycroft Holmes lying on a bed identical to the one I had just been in, part of his right pant leg torn away, exposing lines of black stitches. Sherlock followed my gaze. I noticed that there was a bandage wrapped around Sherlock's arm- the same arm I had watched blood pour out of hours earlier.

"My brother had two bullets in his leg." He exhaled, sounding bored. "Lestrade's down there as well. He arrived after we had passed out. Apparently the snipers weren't quite done." A memory flashed in my mind of seeing Lestrade being wheeled down a white hall, muttering how this wasn't his division and that he should be getting paid overtime for this. I must have come back into consciousness only very briefly.

And then the every single light bulb in the entire building decided to go out at once. _Crap._

"You have got to be bloody kidding me." I wondered if John usually swore this much every day, or if today was an exception. "First the shooting, and now this? I'm really starting to think you enjoy nearly getting killed every other day. After this all over, I'm going on a holiday, to some insanely exotic place where Mycroft can't find me…" He trailed off as the speakers crackled to life.

_"It's been an awfully long time, John Watson," _A man's voice hissed overhead. _"I was beginning to think that you would forget me anyway. But my employer assures me we'll meet again, very soon, at that. That's not what I wanted to tell you horribly naïve idiots, though. You may want to put that holiday on hold. Because this is only just beginning."_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: For those of you that read this story when we first posted it, I get that the change in the summary was pretty major. Considering it's now an AU lead-up to the Fall (sniffs), the end is obviously going to be angsty. I'm actually writing the last chapter right now, and it's killing me slowly. Anyway, I'd be overjoyed if you guys could review this. Please? -JC_

Chapter 8- Sherlock

I was honestly a bit disappointed when the lights snapped back on and the intercom system went off. I knew from experience hacking into electric systems was not a simple job; no doubt there was someone working in the hospital in league with the man who was apparently leading this operation. The absolute darkness had rendered us amazingly easy to kill. I was surprised they hadn't taken advantage of the opportunity to slaughter all of us then. No, clearly the sole objective of this mission had been to scare us. And it had worked. John was noticeably shaken; somewhere near us, Lestrade was loudly attempting to convince the nurses to let him up so he could go track down whoever the heck was on the intercom. Of course, he was using harsher language than that, but I found cursing more than once a day tedious.

I focused only on John. The speaker had inferred that he was familiar with him, and, based on the ever-so-slight tremble in John's hands and my flatmate's expression, deducing he was right was easy enough. "How do you know that man, John?" It occurred to me then that was the same man who orchestrated my abduction.

My voice startled him out of his daze. His own voice was shaking. "There was- there was a man in the army- I don't know him all that well but he was very…very competitive. His name was Marcus Penn. He always took training a little too seriously…" He took a deep breath, and steadied his hands. "And one day he got into a fight with another soldier in his regiment. It was…bad, to say the least. By the time they brought him into the infantry he was half dead, and the other man was beyond help. I had almost finished working on him when he woke up. He was already going mad. I-He begged me to shoot him, and when I wouldn't, he tried to strangle me, even though he was still weak from the sedative. Eventually he gave up and grabbed a gun and started killing everyone within range. Then he ran off, and I haven't seen him since." John stood up suddenly. "Sorry, Sherlock, but I need some air. I'll meet you back at the hotel." We'd rented rooms as the flat was hardly in livable conditions.

I nodded, trying to make sense of his distress. I'd never seen John so afraid for as long as I had known him.

"If I were you, I'd be watching my back." Irene stated bluntly, the only emotion potent in her tone amusement. "Unless John usually acts like that. In that case, you're fine." She had moved off the bed and was now leaning against it.

She was saying exactly the same thing I had been thinking, only with several more layers of sarcasm softened by indifference. I changed the subject. "Where have you been all this time?"

"What makes you expect me to actually answer that truthfully?"

"I should think your little heat-of-the-moment decision in my flat would hold a bit of weight."

"What if I told you that was all our kiss had been? Heat-of-the-moment?"

"I wouldn't be all too shocked you'd still lie to me."

Irene raised her eyebrows. "Let me guess. You took my pulse again?"

"You're getting quicker."

Her eyes raked over my exposed chest. "Well, if you really must know, I've been spending quite a lot of time in America. Blending in wasn't too hard. You just tell everyone you're a tourist and they stop asking annoying questions."

"Hm. Perhaps I should rephrase: how did you like Ireland?"

She leaned over and brushed my ear with her lips. "I'm not the only one who's getting better at this." She sat down in my lap and pulled my forehead against hers before kissing me once again. I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy it immensely.

Irene stood up again, sighing. "I really should stop doing that." She muttered breathlessly, almost to herself.

I chuckled darkly. "I know." Even being this close to her was poison, and eventually it was going to kill me. I wasn't used to letting my feelings rule me. A good part of me had to fight to urge to turn to impassive stone when she touched me.

A nurse came out of nowhere, her disapproving gaze sliding to the discarded hospital gown on the floor. "Mr. Lestrade has been demanding to see you for the last half hour, Mr. Holmes. I hope this is important." Her glare could have cut through bulletproof glass. I could tell Irene was impressed.

"As do I." I pushed myself up from my plastic chair and walked down the short hall into Lestrade's corner, Irene trailing me.

"What the he** just happened, Sherlock?!" Lestrade's face was a brilliant purple I didn't know was even reachable.

"Do you mean the thing with the lights or the snipers earlier?"

"Both! You've got a lot of explaining to- why is _she_ here?" He jabbed a finger at Irene. "And why the heck is she wearing your shirt?" I'd nearly forgotten she was in only my best shirt and her underwear, her long hair hanging down her shoulders.

She smiled innocently. "No reason in particular. I didn't see any need to be in hiding anymore. And those hospital gowns are extremely overrated."

"You have got to be kidding me." He rubbed his eyes in total exasperation. "You two really shouldn't walk around like that. It looks _really_ bad." Suddenly he froze. "Unless…you guys didn't actually…"

"No!" We shouted in horrified unison (well, my part was horrified, hers was amused).

"Oh, thank God. Then again, I can't imagine you doing anything like that, Sherlock. Look, why don't you go home, and get better clothes and come up with a good explanation as to why there are three bullets in my side." Lestrade groaned.

I turned on my heel and headed to the hospital door, reasons for the two attacks already occurring to me as I took the steps leading to our private rooms two at a time. Practically every person we past shot us weird looks, and they were no doubt jumping to the same conclusion Lestrade had, but I wasn't in the mood to care all that much.

Irene caught up with me when I got to the street to wave over a cab. "So when you going to admit that everything that's happened since you got kidnapped was actually all Moriarty?"

I gritted my teeth. Of course she'd bring it up. "I didn't know that it was all connected for certain until the little trick with the lights. If the man's voice hadn't been the same both times, I'd still bet it was someone other than Moriarty."

She snorted. "You seemed pretty certain back when you were talking to John."

"Well, I couldn't exactly tell him the truth, could I?"

"So you were protecting him from getting worried about Moriarty. Right." A cab finally came our way, and Irene called it over. She kept up the flow of questions as we started toward the hotel.

"What about this Penn person?"

"What about him? We'll meet him soon enough. I imagine he'll come to us, one way or another, based on the fact he was positive he'd see John again soon. All we have to do is wait."

She leaned on my shoulder causally. "What do you think Moriarty wants to use him for?"

"Nothing he couldn't do on his own, if it came to that. Penn'll most likely just threaten me. I wouldn't be surprised if the words he uses come straight from Jim Moriarty himself."

"And if you're wrong about him?" Irene shot me a grin.

"I'm never wrong. I thought you'd realize that by now."

"Well, not wrong maybe, but in over your head, perhaps?"

I laughed without humor. "Then we're already as good as dead."

Suddenly the cab jerked to a screeching stop without any warning. I glanced out the front windshield to see there was a man standing in the middle of the mostly-deserted road, smirking, clearly confident in the fact that the cab would stop before it hit him. He strutted over to the side window and knocked on it. Scowling, the cabbie rolled it down, and I caught the words, "…Like to speak to Mr. Holmes…" I opened the cab door without waiting to hear the driver's response and stepped out, Irene following me to stand on the side of the street where we'd been forced to pull over.

I noticed that we had reached our destination. The hotel was only a few hundred yards away. How lucky.

The man who had stopped us saw me and flashed me a smile full of implications. His face was lined and dark, but I tell he was younger than he looked- only a little older than John. I decided to skip the introductions. "You must be Marcus Penn. Why don't we take this to somewhere more private?" I gestured to the hotel and tossed the cabbie his payment as Penn nodded.

000

John was not the least bit surprised when we entered his room with Penn. He'd probably been bracing himself for this meeting ever since he'd left the hospital. Penn took the chair John wasn't occupying, leaving Irene and I sitting together on one of the beds. Our visitor seemed completely at ease, considering I could see the outline of a pistol in John's coat pocket.

"I'm guessing Holmes here has figured out who sent me. Though I suppose if he hadn't, I wouldn't have been sent at all. My employer doesn't waste time with ordinary idiots. And, John, please tell me you didn't actually think I'd come unarmed." He patted his own pocket. "Turns out most people don't bother to listen to the whole don't-hurt-the-messenger gig. But that's beside the point. You, Sherlock Holmes, should know that you have just as many strings as everyone else. Strings can be cut, more easily than you'd suppose. And yours will be chopped off by tomorrow." Penn paused to let that sink in. I didn't give it a second thought, casting his words off as a generic threat, until he spoke again. "My employer wants me to tell you that he owes you a fall." He stood up and walked out of the hotel room, hesitating in the doorway. "You have exactly twenty-four hours before that favor will be redeemed. And I'll be there to see you breathe your last, Holmes." He left for real then, letting silence envelope us for a moment before I jumped, grabbing a new shirt and suit jacket from the dresser and throwing Irene some slacks.

"We're going to follow him. For goodness's sake, John, get that traumatized expression off your face and come on!"

We raced down another set of stairs oddly similar to the one of the hospital and burst outside just in time to see a cab with Penn in it retreating into the distance. I swore and grabbed the next one, desperate to keep up with him for reasons I couldn't put into words.

I managed to convince the cabbie to drive more than a bit faster than the limit with an extra handful of pounds, just until we were in sight of Penn's cab. Finally, _finally_, we found him a few cars ahead of us. They turned into a side alley, and Penn got out. The careless façade was gone, replaced by obvious anxiety. The second the cab pulled out from the alley, five gunshots rang out, echoing off the brick walls, all hitting the man square in the chest. He crumpled to the ground, lying dead in his own pool of blood.

It only really hit me then that his threat had been more than a threat or a warning. It had been a promise.

-jADE


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9- John

_Twenty three hours, fifty minutes, fifty-two seconds_

Sherlock took the taxi home alone, insisting that he needed to think. Irene and I were forced to wait thirty minutes in the pouring rain for the next cab to show up. Of course, Irene had an umbrella with her- an umbrella that was apparently too small to share. I hoped Sherlock didn't expect me to like her just for his sake.

I spent the entire ride back to our temporary home trying very hard not to think. I had no idea what to make of Penn's promise that Sherlock would be dead within twenty-four hours. If I'm being honest, I was absolutely bloody terrified. I could see Irene was shaken as well, though Sherlock had looked as if it was a perfectly normal vow.

As soon as we got to the hotel, I knew something wrong. There was no trace of Sherlock, but that on its own wasn't anything unusual, considering he was probably stuck in traffic, having taken the longer way home to order to 'organize his thoughts'. Unease spread through me, however, as I found a letter sitting on the mantelpiece. A single sheet of paper slid out of the envelope, and immediately I knew it was a photograph. I turned it over, the sick feeling in my chest doubling in size. The picture was a glossy black-and-white, and most of what it showed was a crumbling wall. It was nondescript except for one detail: hanging down about an inch from the ceiling were pair of manacles.

And chained with his hands clenched above his head and his back to the photographer was none other than Sherlock.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing at first. I had seen him less than an hour ago. There was no way he'd been abducted _again_ for the second time in three days.

Irene appeared at my shoulder, staring at the photograph with a guarded expression. Finally she spoke. "I knew where that is. Moriarty and I met there when we first introduced." I was already reaching for my coat at the word 'Moriarty'. I made it all the way to the door before she stopped me.

"Wait, John. We're not going to be able to get there by cab. This place is practically in the middle of nowhere. It isn't on any maps, I can assure you." She sounded unnaturally calm.

I sighed. I should have known that with my luck there were going to be complications. "What are you saying?"

Irene's smile was wicked. "I don't suppose you've ever stolen a car before?"

Twenty minutes later I was sitting in the passenger sit of a car that Irene claimed she would return eventually. I had a feeling she defined 'eventually' as a few years minimum, but I had bigger problems. Like how in the world we were ever going to get out of this mess.

A beeping noise made us both jump. My eyes immediately darted to her shoulder. Sure enough, I could see a squared-shaped patch of slightly darker skin. Completely unnoticeable, unless you knew what to look for. Irene pulled over, clearly confused out of her mind but trying to hide it. I started searching frantically for something to dig it out with before I saw that she was one step ahead of me, holding a pocketknife. She handed it to me, biting her lip as I quickly cut out the da**ed tracking chip. As I worked, I summarized about discovering the first chip Sherlock's shoulder. She just kept nodding, making herself look anywhere but at her wound. I never would have guessed Irene Adler wasn't a fan of blood, judging from the way she had heartlessly beat my friend with a riding crop the day we had met her.

"That's how Penn found us." She said, breaking the silence that had fallen over us. "Earlier today, and at the hospital with the intercom."

I wrapped a torn piece of my shirt about her arm. "He can't be the only one who was tracking you." It occurred to me then that the chip beeping had been getting louder and faster. I glanced at it just in time to see the green light turn red. "Irene." I coughed, trying to talk around the lump of horror forming in my throat. "Whatever happens in the next ten seconds, just keep driving."

"_What?_" I ignored her, twisting to face my side window. I grabbed the handgun I had thought to bring along and shot a hole straight through the center of the glass. Irene was driving back onto the road, gaining speed swiftly, and I could feel air being sucked out as I tossed the chip out. I shot a look behind me the same moment the chip exploded into a mushroom cloud the size of my flat. Irene was barely keeping ahead of it.

I blinked, and almost instantaneously the front of the car crashed into the front of a building that looked like was on the verge of collapse even before we hit it. I could tell from the expressionless mask Irene's face had become that this was our destination. A few hundred yards away from our stolen vehicle I could make out the smoking pile of ash that had been a tracking chip. I was sort of astonished we were still breathing.

This was never going to end well.

-jADE


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: And this is where the cover image comes in... -JC_

**000**

_Who are we to be emotional?_

_Who are we to play with hearts and throw it all away?_

_-Ellie Goulding, _This Love (Will Be Your Downfall)

Chapter 10- Sherlock

_Twenty-one hours, fourteen minutes, thirty-nine seconds_

Everything ached. My head, my legs, my wrists- which seem to be suspended above my head- everything. I eased my eyelids open slowly, but nothing could have prepared me for the bursts of light that hit me from every direction and sent nails through both my temples. I felt myself whimper involuntarily. My vision was blurry around the edges, but I could make windows on either side of me, which explained the light. I was covered in cold sweat and my jacket was gone. It was clear I had been standing here for a while. I tried to pull my hands down in vein, finding they were attached to the wall in front of me by thin black manacles. I leaned my forehead against the cool plaster, fighting to keep from drowning in utter helplessness.

"Isn't this lovely?" An all-too-familiar voice broke my train of thought. _Moriarty._

I didn't dare look up. "I should have guessed this was your work. Who else could possibly have such a weakness for melodrama? And the chains- very cliché."

He laughed. "I'm enjoying the moment while it lasts, Sherlock, don't spoil it." Moriarty walked toward me, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor. "I could do anything to you now. Anything at all. It's a real pity you can't kneel. I can't tell you just how much I would love to see you beg for mercy." He reached up and grabbed my right index finger. Suddenly he snapped it back with a soft crunch and pain flooded my arm all the way down to my elbow. I gritted my teeth and pressed my other fingers around it, holding it in place. Every little jerk was echoed by agony. Moriarty stepped back, and I sensed he was smiling.

"What do you want from me?" I yanked down on my cuffs impulsively, but the edges of them were rusted and sharp, and soon there was blood running down my wrists.

"All I'm asking for is your cooperation." He hissed in my ear. "Mrs. Adler would appreciate it as well. Remember that chip in your shoulder? She's got one too. And this one's special. It's packed with enough explosives to kill her several times over. And you wouldn't want that, would you?"

Of course he would use my feelings against me. Mycroft had been right. Caring was, and always would be, a disadvantage.

Moriarty hovered over my shoulder. "I've just sent your friends another little message. It shouldn't take them too long to get here."

Another message? He must had been at the center of this from the very beginning, when I was abducted and they ever-so-conveniently left John the address. "Who did you give the note to this time?"

He laughed. "It doesn't matter who has the message. Just who has the address."

"Irene." I realized suddenly. "You met here before that whole scandal in Belgravia." It made sense. Moriarty enjoyed irony far too much for him to pick a random place.

"Bit of a shady place to meet, but it served its purposes. But of course kidnapping you again would be awfully boring and pointless. So this time I'm getting something vital out of it. Can you guess what that is?"

His plan was abruptly obvious. It was so simple and yet…so efficient. "You're going to use John to control me."

"And here I was thinking you were losing your touch. But in the end you're just another one of my puppets, except for the minor issue of your strings being a bit harder to pull. You act like you have no idea what love is, but both of us know that all I have to do is threaten John and you'll do whatever I ask. You've always been so predictable, Sherlock. And as for your Irene…Penn has always had a fixation for pretty things."

I didn't let myself flinch. The last thing I would ever do for that worm would be letting him see how his words affected me. Why did I ever cease to separate myself from the cruelties of emotions? _You knew sentiment was a vicious killer._

Footfalls sounded outside the room. I twisted my neck around the slightest bit to see the door knob turn. Moriarty slammed my head against the wall, making my receding headache return with a vengeance. I could feel the barrel of a pistol digging into the back of my throat. I shut my eyes. Hinges squeaked as the door swung open.

"Like my new trinket? He's a rare edition."

"Do shut up, Mr. Moriarty. It would save us all a lot of wasted breath." It was Irene's voice. I tasted bile.

"I really don't think that's going to be possible. And it's a bit of a surprise to see you here. I didn't know if you were smart enough to survive that incident with the tracking chip." Rage filled me. He had tried to kill her. No doubt he was going to try again. Not to mention, John was in for a world of pain if Moriarty got hold of him. I had to get out of here.

John was getting agitated. "Just get to the point. We're sick of your games. All you're doing is stalling for time."

"Have a little patience. I'm getting there. Sherlock's a bit tied up at the moment, and as much I would love seeing him try and dance his way out of this, I'm on a rather tight schedule. But since I'm feeling generous, I'm going to make my intentions extremely clear." I craned my neck to watch him out of the corner of my eye. "Your friends are unarmed, Mr. Holmes. The gun I'm holding is full of bullets, not tranquilizers. Pull a stunt like the one you almost performed the first time we met face-to-face, and I'll pick which of your friends I put a hole in the head of. But here's the twist. I am glad that both of you two came, because that makes this so much more fun. Either I kill one of them, or I take John off your hands, Sherlock, and let you walk away, on the condition that you grant me the pleasure of killing Irene _or_ John- you choose which one lives and which one survives." There was a kind of hunger in his expression as he said it. "I'll give you a minute to think about it."

"Much obliged." I said sarcastically. Without even considering it, I knew the choice was impossible. Even I did succeed in choosing one over the other, I would never be able to live with myself.

The minutes passed as my indecision reigned. Silence shimmered like heat waves in the air around us, making it hard to breathe. Finally Moriarty glanced at his watch and sighed. "Time's up." I heard him cock the pistol. Every part of my very being turned cold with fear, screaming _no_ louder than my voice ever could.

I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the bang followed by the utter emptiness I knew would come.

But it never did.

"WAIT!" John almost threw the word at Moriarty, desperation panging in his tone. "I'll stay with you. I'll- I'll do anything you want me to. I swear I will." His voice was shaking. "Just… don't kill him."

Jim Moriarty laughed. It was a hysterical, half-mad sound. I had nearly forgotten how _entertaining_ this was proving to be with him. "You never cease to amaze me, John Watson. No wonder he keeps you around." He unlocked my handcuffs and I rubbed my chaffed wrists even though the pain seem of little significance now, and my finger's throbbing lessened, making room for deeper pains. Moriarty chained John up in my place and I just stood there. Never in my life had I felt this helpless. I longed to tell him I would get him out of this, but I couldn't, not with Moriarty there and the fact I wasn't even sure if my words were true. Not to mention, I was positive there was no way I could speak past the lump in my throat.

I walked over to where Irene was standing, wide-eyed by the door. The last thing I heard as I pulled the door shut behind us, determined not to look back, was a man who knew how to play with someone's heart saying, "Do come back soon, Sherlock."

000

_Sixteen hours, fifty-eight minutes, five seconds_

The second we'd gotten back to the hotel, I'd headed to my room. I'd been staring at the wall for at least a few hours. Keeping track of the time was fairly low on my list of priorities. Of course, John's life was in danger, and my brain picked now, or all times, to shut down, leaving me to draw a blank over and over.

I hardly noticed Irene sitting down next to me on my bed. Her fingers curled around my wrist, brushing away the bits of dried blood and taking my pulse in the same movement. I almost laughed at the irony of it.

"I'm guessing now would be a bad time to ask about dinner?" False amusement offered only very thin concealment of the anxious undertone in her voice, physical proof that at least one of us is not dead yet.

I took her hand instead of answering her, turning it over so I could kiss her inner wrist, my lips pressing against the fluttering thumps of her beating heart.

"What if you were to get the police and corner Moriarty right now?" Irene was clearly hopeful, and it was clouding her judgment.

"He'd have spies everywhere. Someone would alert him and he'd get away. Besides, he undoubtedly has his own line of defense."

She sighed, and I forced myself to remember the one decision I had made: pulling her out of the line of fire.

"Irene…Moriarty has John now, but if he doesn't feel like he has enough control over me-"

"He'll come for me." Realization spread across her features.

I nodded. "He's making it hard enough as it is. I need you to buy a ticket for the next available train. It doesn't matter where you go, just pick a place he won't think to look and, if he does find you, one that has a good escape route. As soon as this is over, I'll call you."

Irene was obviously annoyed that she couldn't stay, and I wasn't exactly thrilled about letting her leave me again, but it was necessary. "Alright," She whispered resignedly, and kissed me softly one last time before pulling away and heading over to my laptop, which John had managed to grab as he'd left the flat.

I didn't really want to sleep, but my body was betraying me, exhaustion fogging up my usually clear thoughts. I closed my eyes and leaned back against the headboard, knowing that the next time I opened them Irene would be gone, safe, somewhere out of _his_ reach.

In the meantime, I was still no closer in figuring out of a solution to the program Moriarty had so dramatically presented to me.

-jADE

_A/N: Yeah I never meant for this to be Johnlock, but if you want to look at John's sacrifice like that, go ahead (even though I already established this is a Sherlene fic, but whatever floats your ship). Anyways, this is the second to last chapter, so brace yourselves. -JC_


	11. Chapter 11 Part 1

_I think I've been praying_

_The lights won't go out_

_My blood is getting colder_

_As I follow this road down_

_-Ellie Goulding,_ The Ending

Chapter 11, Part 1- Sherlock

_Eight hours, two minutes, twenty-six seconds_

The alarm clock on the bedside table flashed 7:13 A.M. in neon green, and I cursed myself, realizing I had just wasted six hours by _sleeping_, of all things. I had slept away half of my remaining time to save myself.

To save John.

I sat up and attempted to gather my thoughts through the distortion of being barely wake. Irene had left hours ago. Her absence was all too noticeable even in the darkened room. I glanced down at my wrinkled clothes. I hadn't bothered to change the night before. What I wore to bed hadn't seemed to matter much at all.

Suddenly my mobile rang, making me jump. I stood and walked over to where I had left it on the desk where Irene had sat. I had gotten a text- from a blocked number, of course, Moriarty could never be too careful- and if the circumstances hadn't been so dire, I might have laughed when I read it:

_There's a present under your pillow. Sorry that I couldn't stay for tea- XOXO M_

I reached under the pillow- stiff, nearly flat, even by hotel standards, a good ten years old at least, coffee stain covering one of the sides- and, sure enough, my hand bumped into a small white earpiece. I put it on, and was rewarded by a crackle of static as it was turned on. But I was completely unprepared for the voice on the other end.

"Hello, Sherlock," John said quietly, choking on his own words. I started seeing red. Moriarty was using him as his puppet _again_. "Would you mind going to a certain address for me. I think I may have left something there. You might recognize the place- 221B Baker Street."

I should have guessed Moriarty would send me back there at some point. I forced myself to move out of the room, down the stairs, out the main door. A cab was already waiting for me.

I stared out the window, hardly noticing the people we sped past. It didn't seem possible that I had been abducted for the first time only the evening before last.

The drive to my flat from the hotel was an hour long, and John didn't speak the entire time. I wished he would say something, anything, just so I would know that he was still alive. I knew that was sentiment talking, but I couldn't quite bring myself to push the thought away.

The minute we pulled up to Baker Street I could tell Mrs. Hudson was out, though clearly someone had been here recently. I unlocked the door and climbed the staircase to our rooms, taking a deep breath before stepping inside.

I hadn't gotten a good look at the flat earlier when the medics came, but I had an odd nagging feeling that was different than it had been before. Papers and glass were scattered everywhere, my chair tipped over and John's full of bullet holes.

"Look at what you've done, Sherlock." There was too much self-disgust in my friend's undertone for me to feel relief that he was talking again. "Because it's your fault. All of it."

I scanned the room, searching for the camera Moriarty was no doubt using to watch my reaction. A low moan that seemed to come from every direction made me freeze. _"Please…"_ Shivers went through me. I knew that voice. My search grew more frantic as I threw furniture and rubble aside, not bothering to hide my desperation.

After what felt like an eternity, I found her. She was lying on her back, paler than I had ever seen her, scarcely breathing, her coughing the only thing that really assured me she was alive.

"Mum," I whispered. I kneeled down next to her, lifting her limp body into my lap. Blood flowed from a large gash in her side. "No…"

Aileen opened her eyes, and my blood turned to ice as I saw just how much of an effort that little act was. "S…Sher-"

"Shh." I swallowed. Fighting back tears wasn't something I had had to do in very, very long time.

John finally spoke again, his breath hitching as well. "Your chip led me to her address. You can't expect me not to take advantage of that."

I didn't think anymore. I grabbed my phone from my pocket and dialed the hospital. "Send an ambulance to 221B Baker Street. Do it quickly…please." I struggled to keep the panic out of my voice. I hung up before the receptionist could ask for my name. I knew Moriarty wouldn't tolerate me being here when the ambulance showed up, so I picked my mother up and laid her carefully on the somehow still whole couch. "I- I missed you, Mum." She squeezed my hand before sinking into unconsciousness. I heard sirens coming up the street, and I knew my time was up. I opened the window soundlessly and slid out, bracing myself for the impact as I hit the ground running.

And somewhere in the background, so quietly it was almost impossible to hear, Moriarty was laughing.


End file.
